


Nightmares

by onedirectionrody



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onedirectionrody/pseuds/onedirectionrody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry knows he is in love. Louis has no clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares

Honestly, Harry doesn’t even know what to do anymore.

 

That first day, that first time they met was the most embarrassing experience of his life. He was 16, and his hormones were going crazy and he was so, so nervous, and when he left his mum and Gemma to piss for the fourth time that morning, he didn’t expect anything like that. “That” was a boy maybe a few years older than him, with the softest-looking hair he’d ever seen and eyes so blue they hurt. “That” was frantic with energy, tapping his fingers on the wall in front of him. And when “that” looked at him cheekily out of the corner of his eye and said “Hi,” Harry’s body’s reaction to him was… just… unnecessary. So, if he suddenly managed to lose control of his dick and splash “that” with his urine, it was probably “that’s” fault, right?

The first word he said to him was a half-choked “oops.”

But the boy had just grinned again and said “My name’s Louis, what’s yours?” and then Harry had a name to bite into his pillow later that night.

That was how it started, just brief run-ins, moments when their eyes would catch across a large rehearsal space. Harry always smiled dopily, he could feel it, but Louis always looked wicked and cheeky and hilarious and brilliant and warm. And if Harry dreamt about crawling into the space behind his ribcage and taking a nap in that warmth, that wasn’t too much too fast, was it?

And then, then he was eliminated and he couldn’t spot Louis ANYWHERE and he was crying about that more than anything, that this boy with warmth in his skin was leaving and so was he and he didn’t even know where he was from.

But then he was on stage with him, not paying attention to whatever the hell Simon Cowell was saying about second chances, because his was standing right next to him. When Louis suddenly turned and jumped into his arms, his legs around Harry’s waist, Harry already knew they were staying together, because no fate could take him away, not now.

From there, Harry only got worse. Louis was a physical person, always hugging and cuddling with the other members of the band. But Harry liked to think that some things were only his. Like Louis’s look, that one where he smiled just enough that his eyes crinkled at the corners and looked almost apologetic. And the nicknames, Haz and Hazza and Curly and Curls and Babycakes and Sweetums and Babe. Names he never called anyone else. And the way he wanted to live with himjusthim, because Harry was the only one who knew how to comfort him when he was having one of his nightmares. He knew Harry’s drink order and fell asleep curled around him while they watched TV. And while Louis slept, Harry dreamt of the way they could maybe wake up next to each other every morning and read their kids bedtime stories and okay he was maybe getting a little ahead of himself. But he was in love with Louis Tomlinson, just like the rest of the world, and he was the only one who knew that Louis didn’t think he was as good as the other boys in the band and practiced twice as hard as the rest of them and he was the only one who knew how he liked his eggs benedict and that Louis could draw.

So he hoped that the universe would forgive him for thinking he might have a chance.

And then Harry introduced Lou to this one girl he knew, Eleanor, at a party and she did all the things Harry does, flirted and smiled big and touched him so much that no one could imagine it was a mistake. But Louis ended up snogging her in a closet later, and Harry thought that was so ironic, he really did, when all he wanted to do was come out of the closet and snog Louis. When Louis whispered in Harry’s ear that he was going home with her, Harry nodded, just once. Liam, looked at him sympathetically, Niall wrapped his arm around Harry’s waist and refused to talk to Lou for a week, and Zayn poked the other boy in the chest, called him a tosser, and dragged them all to his place for Disney movies and Nando’s takeout. When Harry asked how they knew, they rolled their eyes at him and showed him Ariel’s eyes when they saw Eric. Then, they handed him a mirror. Harry laughed so hard, he cried. Or maybe he cried so hard, he laughed.

Louis has been with Eleanor for months now, and Harry can recognize that she’s sweet enough. She brings Harry touristy souvenirs from everywhere the two of them go without him, always handing them to him with a guilty look on her face. Harry knows it’s because she notices the two boys aren’t quite the same as they’ve always been. It isn’t her fault, but he hates her sometimes – he can’t help it.

And this is where he is one Thursday afternoon. Bone-tired and dismal, draped across the living room sofa, watching an old X-Factor episode and trying not to cry every time he watches himself stare at Louis with everything showing on his face. This is where he is when Louis walks in, having just dropped Eleanor at her place.

Louis flops down onto the couch. Or rather, he flops onto Harry, despite the fact that there is loads of room. His hand automatically falls over Harry’s heart and his nose buries itself into his neck and Harry feels him press, trying to feel Harry’s pulse speed up and hiccough and skip like it always does when Louis is near, feels his lips turn up into a smug grin when he feels Harry’s reaction under his skin, and all of a sudden Harry’s face is flushed and his eyes are tearing up, and he’s ripping himself away from Louis. And it is painful, so, so painful. It feels as though he’s left a layer of his skin on Louis’s. Louis immediately stands up, reaches towards him and falters, because every molecule of Harry’s body is screaming DON’T TOUCH ME along with his mouth, and Louis doesn’t know what to do.

“What’s wrong?” Louis whispers, his eyes already going red around the rims. And Harry wants to say “nothing, nothing, sorry” just to make those eyes okay again, because they are filling with all the insecurities he knows Louis has, even if neither of them mentions them. But he can’t keep DOING this, even if his skin feels like ice without Louis’s always-warmth and he knows his eyes are red-rimmed too.

“You don’t get to do that.” And Harry is screaming, hysterical, his ridiculous huge hands curled into fists he will never use, because he couldn’t stand to hurt someone with his touch as much as Louis does every single day. “You don’t get to touch me like it doesn’t mean anything.”

Louis balks, almost falling down into the couch again. “Of course it means something, Harry,” he says in a calm, methodical voice. He sounds like he’s talking to a child. “It means I love you and we’re best mates.”

Harry grimaces at the word “love” because he knows Louis doesn’t mean it, not the way he wants him to. His voice is much quieter when he speaks again, his back straight, his eyes calmly focused on the other boy’s. “I’ve tried so hard to tell you so many times, Louis. Christ, I have told you a million times, you just never listen. You are such an idiot sometimes. When I tell you I love you, I never follow with ‘as a best mate.’ Louis, I just love you. I love your stupid grin. I love how persuasive you are, how I can never resist doing exactly what you want because I love the way your eyes light up when I do. I love how you refuse to wear socks or sensible shoes. I love your stupid braces and how you lick your lips when you’re thinking too hard. I love how you never want to grow up and how you joke around with interviewers so the rest of us don’t have to take on that pressure. But I hate the way Eleanor looks at you and I hate that smug smile you get when you’ve nearly made me pass out with how much I want you because you know you’ve ruined me, Lou. You’ve ruined me with your nicknames and the stupid matching teddy bears you got us and your voice first thing in the morning and how you drink your tea with milk but no sugar.”

Louis’s mouth goes slack and his eyes get big and Harry knows that, for once, he has nothing to say.

Harry sighs, “I’ll be at Liam’s.” He goes into his bedroom and the bathroom, stuffing his toothbrush and some clothes into the messenger bag Lou calls “the man-purse” and walks out the door. Louis is still sitting in the couch when he leaves. He doesn’t say a word.

When Zayn storms into their apartment three hours later, Louis is still on the couch, his head in his hands. Zayn stops abruptly when Louis head shoots up. “You aren’t Harry.” His head drops back down.

“No, I’m not Harry, you git.” Zayn’s accent is pure Bradford, like it always is when he’s fuming. “You chased him away.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Louis replies in his smallest voice. “You know I didn’t want him to leave.”

“You didn’t exactly stop him.”

“Well, it’s a lot to take in when your best friend suddenly tells you he loves you out of the blue.”

“SUDDENLY?” Zayn’s yelling now and Louis isn’t used to getting screamed at this many times in a day (not by his bandmates, anyway). “OUT OF THE BLUE? Lou, Harry’s told you he loves you every day since you’ve met. HE HAS DISNEY EYES ALL THE TIME. WHENEVER YOU WHISPER IN HIS EAR, YOU CAN SEE HIS BONER FROM SPACE. HOW, PRAY TELL, IS THIS OUT OF THE BLUE?”

It takes Louis a few minutes to get past the fact that Zayn just used the words “boner” and “pray tell” in the same angry rant. And then he thinks of how he knows just what to do to make Harry squirm or melt, how he relaxes into Harry’s side just to feel him shiver. He thinks about the way he knows Harry will always lean into his hand and practically purr when he scratches his nails over his scalp. And suddenly, his chest tightens with the knowledge that the entire time, he has been moving just to watch Harry’s reactions, reaching his hand out just because he loves how needed he feels when Harry leans into it.

When he looks back up at Zane, who is practically vibrating with impatience, his eyes are wide. “I did this,” he breathes, “I led Harry on. For so long. It’s no wonder he hates me. I didn’t realize – I swear I didn’t mean it.”

Zane growls (GROWLS) at Louis and then pounces, grabbing him by the forearm and shaking it. “You absolute prick. You are so FUCKING stupid. You haven’t been leading him on. And you did mean it. I can’t believe I have to be the one to tell you this. YOU ARE IN LOVE WITH HARRY EDWARD FUCKING STYLES, YOU DICK.” Zane storms out then, slamming the door behind him and silently congratulating himself on both the excellent dramatic exit and the fact that he didn’t actually kill one of his bandmates.

But he has left Louis alone, mouth gaping like a fish’s. Louis is not supposed to be alone. He doesn’t do well alone (without Harry). When he is alone, everything he is afraid to think, all the thoughts he has fought to avoid jump in, all at once, and he forgets how to breathe.

The first thought he thinks is how he sometimes pretends he has a nightmare just so he can climb into Harry’s arms and feel his fingers card through his hair. He thinks of the way Harry drinks his tea so sugary, he’s sure the boy won’t have teeth in a few years, and how he really, really sucks at football. He thinks of the way Harry’s heart races beneath his fingers, how he always digs for that pulse because it means the other boy is okay, still breathing and alive and safe. And then, then he thinks about what he would do to keep his pulse that way, and at first he thinks he means safe and alive, but then he thinks he might mean racing. And then, he thinks that there is no limit to what he would do. He would kill or die or live just to keep Harry’s heart pounding to the beat of his lips against Harry’s earlobe or his fingers around his hipbone.

Because he is in love with Harry Edward Fucking Styles.

Louis thinks he will just go to bed, and then tell Harry tomorrow, maybe. That way, his head will be clearer. Yes, that’s what he needs, a good night’s rest before he tells his best friend that he’s in love with him. 

But then he is passing Harry’s room and hesitating, because the sheets are still twisted from the night before. And all he wants to do is bury himself in them and pray that Harry’s smell will help him sleep, because he knows he won’t be able to without him tonight. And there it is, the sharp tug behind his belly button that says “you need him” and “no one else even comes close” and the best advice he’s heard all day “if you’re going to run, it has to be toward him.”

It takes him 9 and a half minutes to get to Liam’s front door. His hair is a mess, his clothes are wrinkled. He has never felt less prepared for anything, not in his entire life. He wonders if maybe he should just wait. It is late, anyway. Maybe they’re all asleep. Harry looks like he’s six years old when he’s sleeping, all mussed hair and flushed cheeks and dimples. He would hate to disturb that. But just as he turns to go back to his car, he hears voices through the door.

Liam’s voice, calm and slightly muffled, saying, “Shh, shh. It’ll be alright. Louis won’t leave you, Harry. He promised. Please don’t cry. You’ll talk to him tomorrow and it will all be okay.”

And Louis can’t stop himself anymore because Harry’s CRYING, choked sobs that Louis can hear even through the heavy door. Louis knows the door is heavy, because before he has even registered the sound of Harry crying in his brain, he is trying to force himself through that door, slamming his shoulder against it over and over, as hard as he can. He knows, of course, that if he just knocked, it would open. But some part of him that doesn’t think in words, just in the need to protect what is his, is screaming and rabid and wild at the thought of Harry – beautiful, soft Harry – hurting. That part can’t wait for someone to open the door. That part needs Harry now.

It’s Zayn who pulls the door open and immediately gets the wind knocked out of him by Louis, who was rushing the door again. The sight should be comical, Zayn’s arms wind-milling as he tries to stay upright, and Louis falling on his hands and knees in the foyer. But Louis is making a low, worried whining noise in the back of his throat and crawling, stumbling to his feet and running to Harry, who is sitting on the couch looking at Louis like he is about to claw his heart out of his chest and bury it in their backyard.

But Louis is flinging himself around Harry, diving into the couch and wiggling behind Harry until he is surrounding him, his arms and legs around the younger boy. He is patting his curls anxiously and kissing his cheek and neck, kissing everything in reach.

Liam and Zayn rapidly retreat to the kitchen, where Niall is standing with his mouth open, crisps dropping from his lips to land in a small pile on the tile.

“Louis? Louis, what are you doing?” Harry is saying, though his tears have stopped and he is unconsciously leaning into Louis’ arms.

“I hurt you,” Louis responds almost childishly, nuzzling into the pale, smooth skin under Harry’s jaw. “I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.”

Harry suddenly pulls away, much like he did earlier in the apartment, stepping away from Louis. “That doesn’t make it hurt less, Lou,” he groans, exhausted. “You’re still only touching me because it doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“Wait, Hazz. I haven’t said it all yet. Please?”

Harry gestures impatiently for him to continue.

“I’m an idiot. A complete and utter idiot. You know, I tried to avoid hearing you tell me you loved me a million times, because we’re always afraid of the person we love most and that person is you. If I followed ‘I love you’ with ‘as a best mate,’ it was just because I was afraid of what it would mean if I didn’t. But Harry, I love you. I love how big you smile, how your dimples are used as everything but storage space for your secrets. I love how I need to tell you what to do sometimes, because if I don’t occupy my mouth somehow it will end up on yours. I love how you always let me borrow your socks at night, even if they’re too big and end up buried at the bottom of the bed.  I love your stupid blazers and the way you shake your head around when your hair refuses to cooperate. I love how slow you speak in interviews, how warm and careful your voice is because you are always making sure you never hurt anyone with it. I love the way you look at me, like I am something perfect and strong and brave, even when you’re the one who has been brave and strong enough to confront the way we feel about each other. And I love that you nearly pass out with how much you want me, because sometimes my vision swims, but I don’t mind because it just means I get to look at more than one of you at the same time. You’ve ruined me with your big eyes and your crooked smiles and your nicknames and the matching blankets you got us and your voice late at night when I’ve made up another nightmare just so I have an excuse to fall asleep in your bed. You’ve ruined me with how you drink your tea, with so much sugar I worry you’re a crack addict. You’ve made me into someone who will actually try and break Liam’s house if it keeps me from comforting you when you cry. And I’m okay with that. Because I love you, and I don’t care if it makes me absolutely crazy half the time; it’s worth it.”

Harry is staring at Louis, his fists clenching until his nails have dug into the palm of his hand. And then, just as suddenly, his fists are clenched into the material of Louis’s shirt and his mouth is memorizing the other boys. There are slim fingers pressing into his sides, and a delicate nose brushing his. There are eyelashes resting on his cheek. And with all the sensory overload, it takes Harry a moment to realize this is Louis – the fingers and nose and eyelashes and, oh god, the lips. They are all Louis and they want him and they are touching him like he means so much more than a best mate, and he is almost convinced, almost.

“Louis?”

“Yes, love?”

“Is this one of your nightmares?”

“I haven’t had a nightmare in years, Harry. But if this will help…” he reaches down and gently bites Harry’s bottom lip and tugs. “Are we awake?”

“I think we are.”

“Want to go home and make out in your bed?”

“Our bed, Lou. Our bed.”

Even then, it takes them nearly a half an hour to snog their way to the car. Liam, Zayn, and Niall don’t even pretend to be exasperated.


End file.
